Mick Carter was starting to come around on that wintry morning in South East London. He assumed one of his treacles, past or present, was the one on top of him licking his face. He was incorrect. He realised what a slice he'd been when he finally opened his eyes to find Lady Di on top of him, the family bulldog. He playfully lifted her off himself and put on his favourite pink dressing gown and slippers, moving to the kitchen with Di following at his heels. Nobody was about it seemed. Still it was early, they could be in bed and the pub wasn't due to open for hours. He was hungry anyway so set about knocking himself up a full English - none of this Quinoa or Muesli bollocks.